by Wayne H.W. Wolfson

We used empty wine bottles to shoot fireworks at the sea. Our noses burning with sulfur as dull red bouquets sink beneath the waves.

She leans against the rusted red newspaper coffin waving goodbye to the train.

With the right music, it could be a scene out of a movie.

Part of her knows it's for the last time. There are no more holidays to be had. No.

Not now, not until December, and who knows where we will be.

Its not a matter of what we want, there's a goodbye on every corner.